


Of Monsters and Medics

by EatYourSparkOut



Series: Mindflayer AU [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Biology, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Complicated Consent, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Euthanasia, Gen, Mental Coercion, Monsters, Predator/Prey, Tentacles, Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 12:34:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11185239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EatYourSparkOut/pseuds/EatYourSparkOut
Summary: Pharma isn't the only monster to be found on Delphi.This one just has stronger morals.





	Of Monsters and Medics

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kibahshi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kibahshi/gifts).



> Believe it or not, this idea arose because my friends had to go and use the phrase 'mind vore' in front of me. They're terrible.
> 
> ...but also I love pnp.  
> ........and monsters.
> 
> Warnings for generally creepy shit, and complicated consent. The bot in question agreed to medical treatment, but probably wasn't expecting to get his brain nommed in a vaguely sexy way.

Ambulon looked around the medbay and sighed. Too many casualties—it seemed the numbers grew by the day. They were understaffed, and overworked, and had been running on empty as far as supplies went for the better part of a month.

Pharma’s demands had increased as of late, and he constantly berated them about losing patients—as though they weren't already stretched thin and doing the best they could.

Ambulon had also been preoccupied by the concerning fact that their death toll had been _increasing,_ despite the official end to the war. By all accounts they should have been able to maintain the survival rate of the past few months, even in these conditions, but each passing week they lost more mechs and more mechs—seemingly on the path to recovery until they inexplicably took a turn for the worse.

All of Ambulon’s instincts screamed that there was something strange happening on Messantine. Something that had nothing to do with him.

He’d look into it soon, if things didn’t improve. He could probably get away with some snooping, even with Pharma hanging over his shoulder like a hungry gyrovulture.

 _Pharma_ was another issue altogether. 

Ambulon was under a great deal of pressure as Ward Manager, and he wasn’t always the most pleasant these days—lapsing too often into an innate awkwardness brought on by a terrible combination of stress and social anxiety. It was only made worse by the fact that Pharma was his superior. The temptation to snap at him every time he started being unreasonable was growing by the day, but he was valiantly fighting it down. Instead, Ambulon would avert his optics uncomfortably—defaulting to a speech pattern which was brusque and professional in hopes that the medic would depart quickly, and leave him to do his work in peace.

Interacting with his boss always left Ambulon's field crawling, and as a consequence he probably directed that clipped attitude at Aid more often than he deserved.

Thankfully, Pharma spent most of his time holed up in his office—save for when he was needed for urgent or complicated surgeries—and he seemed content to avoid the rest of them. An air of superiority fueled his self-induced solitude.

Ambulon was glad for it, as it left him able to focus on his patients without the creeping dread that Pharma might start flinging his disparaging comments within earshot of them. It always made anger simmer low beneath his plating.

Many of these mechs were traumatized—often _by_ Decepticons—and yet Pharma somehow felt that it was fine to go ahead and imply that their caretaker was aligned with the enemy, untrue as it was. 

Aft.

Ambulon could handle the harsh treatment; it was unpleasant, but ultimately ignorable.

But it took a special kind of cruelty to tell a helpless mech that his doctor was a threat to him. 

First Aid was a welcome relief from Pharma’s icy demeanor and unrelenting harassment. The other nurse was a steadfast and reliable coworker, but above all he was the friendly face that Ambulon needed in order to weather Pharma’s increasingly abusive behavior. Ambulon still regretted that he had been forced to demote the capable medic, despite the fact that Aid didn’t seem to harbor any resentment towards him.

Nevermind the fact that Ambulon could take care of Pharma in a sparkbeat, if he were so-inclined. Sometimes, he lamented the fact that he had stronger morals than a good deal of his kin—and then immediately felt guilty.

He hadn’t gone into medicine just to break his vows because he hated his boss.

Ambulon glanced up at where First Aid was currently—well, fawning wasn’t the most professional term, but it was the most accurate, seeing as the subject of his attentions was Fortress Maximus. The corner of his mouth quirked upwards. Ambulon could admire his dedication at the very least, and despite his distractions the standard of care he’d been showing everyone else in the ward had remained nothing short of exemplary.

He couldn’t complain about favoritism as long as the other patients were receiving adequate attention, and he was interested to see if anything would come of First Aid’s theories. _Pharma_ may not have been interested, but Ambulon had an inkling that that Aid might onto something. Spark resuscitation was undoubtedly an area which could use more research.

Honestly, First aid would likely revive the mech through sheer determination alone at this point.

The only upside—if you really could call it that—to the aura of death which hung heavy over the facility was that Ambulon was functioning at peak efficiency. Ironic, that when they did their jobs well he was at his most hungry, but he’d accepted that price when he chose his career, and would have preferred it to... this.

After all, not even the most skilled medics could cure every ailment, and at the end of the day there would always be at least _one_ dying mech to sustain him in times of need.

At the moment, however, Ambulon wasn't feeling the bite of hunger. Half a year ago he’d been enduring slight numbness in his extremities. Half a year ago he hadn’t been able to shake the chill from his plating, and there'd been an insistent, gnawing need which had urged him to seek out the energy his frame so desperately needed—despite his resistance.

Half a year ago he’d been starving, but there was no shortage of nourishment here.

Ambulon had never felt guilty about his nature per se—after all, what was the use in feeling guilty about an unchangeable facet of your biology? He had however, always found ways to circumvent it.

He’d entered the medical field because he’d wanted to help other mechs yes, but it also hadn’t escaped his notice that such a career would help him as well. It was a compromise; one where he could help those beyond saving—albeit, in an unconventional way—and satisfy his own hunger often enough to keep him functioning.

Mindflayer—it was a word meant to scare sparklings. It belonged to tales told in hushed voices, of nightmares hiding in the shadows ready to snatch up unsuspecting mechs and drain the life from their frames. Mostly fantastical, but not without a kernel of truth.

There were a good number of his kind who lived less ethical lives—acting more like the monsters found in myth—but it wasn’t an easily sustainable lifestyle. Frames weren’t so easy to dispose of after all, and hunting with no plan was just asking to be caught. Most of them had found their little niches in society, where mechs could be picked off discreetly and not be missed by the general populace.

Medicine was one such place to hide, and while significantly older than his records claimed, MTO was a decent cover which no one cared to scrutiny. Who kept track of where mechs really came from in the midst of a war? The skills and reputation which came with a position such as his were the perfect smokescreen, and Ambulon genuinely enjoyed his work—enjoyed making a difference.

The lives he saved made up for those which he helped end, even if _his_ feedings were a mercy more often than not.

He surveyed the room solemnly—making note of the patients who likely wouldn’t survive the week’s end—and sighed.

A wheeze came from beside him. This mech’s spark was giving out; there’d be no saving him despite their best attempts. The miner’s name was Dragline, and he’d been pulled from the wreckage of a collapsed tunnel, his frame completely crushed. The damage done to his spark and surrounding areas had spread and caused frame-wide corrosion, and it was irreversible at this stage.

Pharma would likely berate him—demean his skill—but he’d know that there was nothing else to be done. This mech had been critical; he'd been dying already when he’d been brought in this morning, and all they had done was prolong his agony.

Unfortunately, it wouldn't be a quick death. The fluid which was building up in his sparkchamber was causing a considerable amount of pain. They couldn’t drain it fast enough.

Autobots didn’t usually believe in euthanasia, and it was one of the very few things that Ambulon missed about being a Decepticon. It had been born out of a culture of brutal efficiency more than anything else—more about usefulness than mercy—but at least they’d understood when enough was enough.

Ambulon would put Dragline out of his misery now if he could, but First Aid was still around and that made it far too risky.

No, he’d wait until tonight.

Ambulon cast another sympathetic look at Dragline as his vents rattled painfully. He didn’t deserve to endure this misery, but it would all be over soon enough.

“Aid,” he called out, and his fellow nurse looked up from where he had been reviewing Maximus’ charts for the hundredth time. “I’m going to go finish these write-ups for Pharma. Comm me if you need anything.”

“Alright!” came the bright reply; undoubtedly happy to have some time alone to work on his project.

Ambulon left, anticipation curling in his lines despite his best efforts.

 __________________________

He returned in the dead of night, after Pharma and Aid were guaranteed to be in recharge. He didn’t have to worry about cameras—the very idea was laughable, considering the state of their funds. Even if they’d functioned properly, they didn’t have the staff to watch them.

Ambulon made his way back to Dragline, whose vitals were even worse than when he had left a few hours ago. He wouldn’t last the night.

The corner was dark, and partially shielded from view. None of the other patients would notice, and with his enhanced sensors he would easily hear if anyone stirred from their recharge or approached the room.

He took a seat beside Dragline . Plating shifted in his wrist, revealing specialized cables which inched out and began to creep towards the servo which lay limply on the berth. Semi-prehensile, the tendrils ghosted across the mech’s fingers—seeking their prize.

“Wha—?” came the weak—so very weak—groan from the mech on the slab.

“It’s alright,” soothed Ambulon, and he reached out to take Dragline’s servo. “I’m here.”

His cables carefully slid back the covers on the underside of Dragline’s wrist and slipped in, where they immediately locked themselves into position. Magnets made sure that disconnecting would be a difficult task without Ambulon in agreement.

As soon as the connection solidified he delved into Dragline’s systems, gliding easily past firewalls not adapted to deal with his particular brand of coding, and suppressing the mech's urge to thrash or yell. Ambulon didn’t want him hurting himself any further. He also took the opportunity to shut off the mech’s optics, just as a precaution.

His true appearance wasn’t something most bots took kindly to.  

Ambulon focused his attentions on transmitting a pleasant, soothing buzz across the hardline. As it radiated throughout Dragline’s frame—replacing the strut-wrenching pain of the past few hours—he sagged against the berth, and vented in relief.

While the mech was pliant and distracted, Ambulon took the chance to transform his helm. The plating beneath his optics divided into sections, before parting and folding away—creating much-needed space. By the end of it, he inside of his lower helm was an empty cavern, save for the relatively shallow cylindrical protrusions attached to the very back.

He sent the command which would pressurize their contents, and his cables— more like tentacles than anything else—began to unfurl, stretching out and taking up the previously unoccupied area. Ten of them in total, they emerged from his helm and curled in anticipation. A few hung back and coiled around the others—he wouldn’t need all of them for a mech this size.

Confusion buffeted him—Dragline having shaken off the novelty of the initial connection. Ambulon was undeterred, and began making his way system to system in order to bind the mech’s processors to his own, building temporary connections and feedback loops which encouraged docility and promised reward.

He did this as gently as possible—a soothing whisper in the back of Dragline’s processor rather than a dominating force. Ambulon wanted this as pleasant as possible. The poor mech deserved to live his final moments pain-free, if nothing else.

He slowly leaned in, allowing a few of his cables within reach of Dragline’s helm. The tapered ends eagerly sought purchase, prying their way into seams and then farther. Much more invasive than an ordinary hardline, but then again, his cables sought a more _direct_ connection than could be acheived the usual way.

They burrowed deeper, navigating delicate circuitry to reach the processor. Ambulon made sure to distract Dragline with increasingly strong waves, easing the deep-set pain and blanketing him with feelings of contentment.

His cables split off, becoming thinner tendrils which penetrated the processor itself and wormed their way deep. They split twice more, every ensuing division infiltrating more and more area until the Dragline’s processor was utterly overtaken by the wires which threaded through his most essential circuitry.

The mech’s mind had begun to truly smooth out; the only ripples in the otherwise calm pool were those of pleasure—induced by the feel of Ambulon’s questing cables as they brushed against deepset sensors—and the deliberate wash of bliss which he maintained.  

[There’s no need to worry], assured Ambulon. [Relax].

A flicker of doubt. A hint of resistance, but it was quickly squashed by another string of code which corrected the pathway—diverting the negative feelings into those of appreciation.

[I’m only trying to help you], he encouraged. [Please, trust me].

Ambulon wrapped Dragline’s consciousness up in his own, and stroked gently at the other mech’s mind until the protests dissipated completely. In his stupor, he didn’t feel the barbs which shot out and hooked into delicate components with hungry intent.

Mindflayer was a bit of a misnomer. What Ambulon ate—what he drew energy from—wasn’t the processor itself, but a mech’s consciousness. All of the coding which made up someone’s personality, their very _sense_ of self, was ripe with potential. The energy created via the simple acts of forming memories, making decisions, and even just thinking—it all coalesced and was processed in a very unique way inside a Cybertronian’s helm.

The processor Ambulon was currently threaded through thrummed with this energy—the telltale sign of a vibrant, thriving mind. Electricity jumped eagerly from circuit to circuit as it interpreted the signals currently running through Dragline, and converted them to sensation.

When that energy was drained—when Ambulon inevitably pulled along the associated memories and coding which defined the mech in question—the only thing left would be a shell. There was no way for him to feed without erasing a mech’s capability for independent thought; the process broke down too much essential circuitry; it erased too much vital coding.

Unfortunate, because it made sure that any bot who ‘survived’ an encounter with a mindflayer would never have the presence of mind to count themselves lucky. They’d be reduced to a hollow frame running on life support systems. Less, if the mindflayer decided to take everything.

For Dragline, it didn’t matter. He was already dying, and Ambulon could only give him this—a release from the pain of his last few hours, and the freedom of mindlessness as he faded.

And so Ambulon began to feed.

His cables tapped into the rich energy source so generously provided, and as circuits within the processor continued to fire, they leeched the resulting discharge. The only response from Dragline was a soft sigh, even as Ambulon’s cables grew more eager and quickened the rate of absorption.

Ambulon couldn’t help but appreciate the way Dragline’s processor began to dim as he deliberately sifted through and dissolved vital coding—tearing down firewalls like wet paper, and coaxing his mind to lay itself open and vulnerable. It wasn’t deliberate, wasn’t _sadistic_ , but it was difficult to argue with instinct which insisted that the contents of this mech’s mind belonged in his frame.

And the process was lamentably enjoyable. The stream of information and energy flooded Ambulon systems with delicious vitality.  He moaned nearly imperceptibly—let his optics flicker shut as he focused his attentions on drawing all that he could from Dragline before his higher functions shut down.

Ambulon came to know the mech intimately in a matter of seconds. He parsed Dragline’s determination, his stubbornness, his insecurity around his fellow miners and tendency to make terrible jokes in awkward situations. He catalogued years of memories in an instant—most of them spent toiling for a cause Dragline didn’t even have a personal investment in—but the bright spots shone through. A day spent laughing with his friends, the view from the top of a cliffside as Messantine’s two suns rose over the glittering snow. His unshakeable crush on another miner, and the day he gathered the courage to kiss him—even though the relationship fell through in the end.

Ambulon vowed to keep the memories safe, as always.  

Dragline’s processors were entirely within his thrall now—pliable, moldable, easy to direct towards his own. More than half of his mind had gone dark, sections utterly drained. He still had enough awareness to feel however, and being as there was no reason to leave him functioning, Ambulon wanted to make sure that his last moments were enjoyable.

A subtle change in the pulses being sent across the hardline, and the haze of pleasure he had inflicted upon Dragline took a more sensual turn. His peaceful demeanor turned quickly to a wanting one as charge crawled across his plating. He moaned weakly in appreciation, and Ambulon upped the intensity.

The last refuges of Dragline’s processor flicked weakly at the onslaught, and along their connection Ambulon felt how the ecstasy curled along his plating and seared through his lines. He used the feedback to tweak the sensations, and prodded at sensitive clusters with his cables until Dragline was trembling on the verge of overload.

A gentle nudge was all it took to push him over the edge, and Dragline arched against the berth in grateful bliss. Ambulon intercepted the rolling waves over the hardline; he drank down the last of the energy as it surged across his very appreciative cables. He didn’t overload himself, but enjoyed the warmth which permeated his systems nonetheless.

When Dragline settled again, his optics were as vacant as his processor.

Ambulon felt a twinge of sadness. The miner had deserved a better life than this, and a better end.

He withdrew carefully from the helm, careful not to leave any traces of his manipulation. Once extracted, his cables coiled together into thicker appendages once more. As much as Ambulon would have liked to give them more time in the open—to work out all of the kinks which had developed from having to hide them so often—he couldn’t risk it. Perhaps later in his room, he’d feel more secure, but for now, he’d endure the helmache.

Reluctantly, Ambulon engaged the sequence which would return his face to that of a normal Cybertronian’s, and he grimaced as the final pieces clicked back into place. Returning to this disguise always felt so... restrictive.

Ambulon disconnected from Dragline’s wrist, and then he slid the covers back into place—glancing once more at the rapidly greying frame. His own frame thrummed with newfound strength, but his satisfaction was tempered by mild guilt.

As he slunk back to his room, Ambulon picked absently at the peeling paint on his arm. He’d be able to get a couple hours recharge before it all began anew tomorrow. He had another rough day ahead of him, but this time he’d be facing it with renewed vigor, and hopefully a more confident demeanor.

After all, Pharma was far from the most dangerous this hospital housed.

**Author's Note:**

> I made a little post about TF Mindflayers here~
> 
> https://spidingsadly.tumblr.com/post/161630970128/p-nutwithapeeve-spidingsadly-ive-been
> 
> There'll definitely be more to come, and I've got a _lot _of nsfw headcanons to elaborate on, so stay tuned ;3__


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